


The Third Shimada

by SailorScribble



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Family Drama, Gen, Hero or Villain?, Origin Story, Other characters are mentioned but not involved, Short, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 14:44:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13661160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorScribble/pseuds/SailorScribble
Summary: The Shimada men are fearsome dragons, but the women are delicate doting flowers. Sakura has lived her whole life knowing her destiny; to be wife of the heir Hanzo Shimada, excusing the fact that he is her cousin. But a dangerous part of her doesn't want a life of wearing kimonos and serving tea... She is hungry for something more.---------------------------------------------This story was inspired by the fact that in present Overwatch time, without Hanzo or Genji the Shimada-gumi still needs a leader. Who is currently in charge of the yakuza crime gang? This is my interpretation of the current oyabun's origin story and how she rose to be a dragon that rivals the males of her clan.





	The Third Shimada

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! As described in the summary, this story was inspired by my wondering who the current leader of the Shimada-gumi is (without Hanzo or Genji). And thus, Sakura and her story were born. This is a short origin story. Minor spoiler: this story ends before she takes over the clan, but I feel I leave it at a place where you, the reader, can easily connect the dots from there.
> 
> Also a warning, this story does include a rape, though it is not explicit. It is for character development purposes only. I will also admit that I was writing from my own experience and it is something that I have come to terms with. 
> 
> Finally, I imagined the Shimada-gumi as having some very antiquated views and practices. I want to make clear that this does not reflect on Japanese society or culture as a whole, and remind you that this is ultimately fictitious.
> 
> Anyway, without further ado, please enjoy!

He doesn’t love me.

My mother and father, his mother and father, our aunts and uncles, cousins and friends… Everyone in the clan. They all want him to love me.

But he doesn’t.

Sitting across from me now, he can hardly look at me as sake is poured into our cups.

His father, my uncle, and our Lord, raises his glass from his seat at the front of the ballroom, “Congratulations on the engagement of Hanzo and Sakura Shimada!”

We tap drinks then swallow hard. Our family around us is clapping. The party has officially begun. Waiters hurry around us, dishing out endless platters of food, and alcohol flows freely.

Even Hanzo, the bitter man, can force a fake smile as every guest approaches to congratulate the new couple. His fake smile is pretty good, but I am the master of faking a smile. I pride myself in its authenticity. It’s a smile I have perfected.

           

* * *

 

 “Chin up!” My tight lipped teacher told me the next day.

“Back straight!” Slapping my back hard, “A beautiful lady always has a perfect posture.”

I silently observe her as she fusses about me. Perhaps she was once a beautiful woman, but age has made her sag and her bitterness has made her ugly. Just past her, in the courtyard, I can see him, my “lover”, sparring with his brother. They move like leaves on the wind, their bamboo swords clashing with sharp slaps.

The attendants tighten the _obi_ round my waste, and I gasp for breath. My teacher gives me a wary look before tapping my chin, “A beautiful lady with a thin… Beautiful waist.”

She doesn’t know how much I want to hurt her. But I am not a dragon, not like the men. I am a flower. A beautiful, delicate flower. And flowers do not speak. Flowers do not strike out at you. They wave in the wind, bloom in the spring, wait for someone to pluck them…

She brings me to the mirror, “There you are.”

The kimono is dark purple with a frightening spiraling red dragon roaring across my breast. The boldness of it is very unlike me, the “mousy Shimada daughter”. And yet, my heart skips a beat while I look at myself.

I look nothing like a mouse at all.

“Do you like it?” The old lady asks.

I am unsure what to say.

She gestures outside, “He picked it out, especially for you.” Tentatively, I turn to look.

Genji is on the ground. Hanzo looks down at him with that recognizable expression of sadistic pleasure all Shimada men have. He has won again.

She hands me a tray with tea, “Go to him.” She orders.

I obey. Walking across the tatami with years of practiced grace. Carefully, I kneel outside for my lover, then prepare his tea with learned hands, taking care for each and every motion.

_Clean the tea scoop. The bowl. Add one scoop of matcha. Pour in the hot water. Whisk. Run the whisk around the edge of the bowl. Place it to the right. Then-_

As I reach for the cup to serve his tea, Hanzo gently stops my hand. I hadn’t notice him come over.

“It’s okay.” He tells me, “I can do it.”

I blush. It is not fake.

He sits down next to me, and takes the tea, sitting in _seiza_ and being mindful to hold the cup the correct way.

He is learned too. But his brother?

“Got some for me!?” Genji bounces over to us, eyeing the tea tray, taking particular note of the cakes. Before I can stop him, he’s grabbed one, plopped next to me, and starts eating it happily.

“Wow! Did you make these?” He asks me; the only Shimada who smiles genuinely.

“Yes.” I can’t help but smile back.

“Wow, Sakura.” He shoves the whole thing in his mouth, filling his cheeks, “They taste great!”

Then he leaned over and poked at Hanzo’s side, “You better look out, with that kind of cooking. Maybe after a few weeks with her I can finally beat you.” He winks at me.

Hanzo is unamused, but I can’t help but chuckle.

We are interrupted when a man comes forward with a strange long parcel in hand. He kneels before Hanzo, presenting the package to him, “Hanzo-sama, your _naginata_ has arrived.”

           

* * *

 

 Later, Genji and I are watching him use it.

“A _naginata_?”

Genji shrugs, “We have some lying around, don’t know why he ordered a new one.”

Hanzo is wielding a long rod with a stiff pointed blade at the end, the flare of a red silk ribbon where the blade meets the stem keeps catching my eye as it dances through the air, “Does he know how to use it?”

“Does he _look like_ he knows how to use it?”

Hanzo eyes a dummy made of hay, with a shout and graceful sweep the dummy is sliced in two. My heart pounds in my chest. The movement was beautiful… Perfect…

_“Don’t watch them!” My teacher scolded, yanking my face back toward my flower arrangement._

Hanzo notices me staring. I avert my gaze to the ground.

He approaches and looks back toward the room warily, “Is Oba-sensei gone?”

I nod.

He hands the _naginata_ out to me. I look between it and him, a little confused, “Do you wish for me to take this to your room?”

“No.” He says sternly, “It is yours.”

_Mine?_

Carefully, I reach out and take it in my hands. It is heavy, but balanced. Holding it steady, I appraise it’s quality and design. The red ribbon shivers in the wind. The solid wood has a pungent smell of lacquer. Butterflies dance in my stomach and I realize I had neglected to eat lunch.

_I am hungry…_

Hanzo takes another _naginata_ leaning on the wall, “Stand up. I will teach you to use it.”

Genji and I look to each other; he looks just as shocked as I. But I was a fool then, still so confined in archaic family rules, the most important being that _girls do not fight._ I wouldn’t even consider it; “I am a lady.” I reminded him, gently laying the weapon before me, “Fighting does not befit me.”

“But you are to be my wife.” Hanzo jutted the blade of his own _naginata_ at me, “I will not be wed to someone who cannot protect herself.”

So critical. His most undesirable feature, but one he has never directed at me. I respond to him with a sharply furrowed brow, “If my husband is _strong,_ I should not need protecting.”

“Ouch.” Genji whispers.

Hanzo approaches with the second weapon in hand, a cruel look in his eye and anger in his gait. I feel my insides hollow; Shimada men are notorious for losing their tempers.

I wince as he stops before me, waiting for him to lash out. But he does not. Cautiously, I open my eyes.

“You are right.” He says, “A sword does not befit a lady. But this-“ he holds out his own _naginata,_ “This is a woman’s weapon. Many noble women have learned the art of the _naginata_ , just as they have worn kimonos… and served tea.”

I look back down at the long rod placed next to my tea-making tools. _A woman’s weapon?_ My stomach growls, and it was there, I knew, a lingering nagging desire… Hanzo had surprised me, for, like me, he never defied family rule. Yet here there was, daring me.

I close my eyes and gently rise to my feet, “I will see you tomorrow.” I told him curtly before leaving.

 

* * *

 

Days pass, but my interest in the _naginata_ does not. He has ordered it to be kept in my room. It leans against the side of my wardrobe, nearly as tall as the bureau. I have continued to refuse his offers to teach me. I would have thrown it out the window by now, but, embarrassingly…

It frightens me.

And every night I toss and turn, plagued by a dream where I am standing in front of a mirror. Oba-sensei hands me a tray of tea.

“Go to him.” She orders.

I go to the courtyard, serve the tea, clean the tray, then return to the mirror and stare at myself, until my teacher hands me another tray of tea.

I repeat the process.

Over and over.

Endlessly.

I awake with a start and find the _naginata_ ’s red ribbon flash out in the night, the tall rod a shadowy monolith in the dark, the blade like the flashing eye of a predator.

One night I realize it is not the blade which frightens me…

 

* * *

 

Hanzo was doing target practice with a new bow when I approached him, carrying two _naginata_. Before he can put down the bow, I throw one of the rods at him.

He fumbles to catch it, clumsily dropping a quiver of arrows in the process.

“Teach me.” I order him.

At first he is surprised, but then, amazingly, he smiles.

Perhaps the first real thing I had ever seen from him.

 

* * *

 

It has been three weeks since he has given me _R_ _yuugakoroshi_. That’s my name for her.

_Dragon Killer._

No one knows I named her, and few know I have her: Hanzo, Genji, a couple of select servants. My parents don’t know. Sojiro-sama doesn’t know.

We practice in the veil of night, long after my etiquette classes. And Hanzo and I? We have never been close. Even as children conversation was awkward. We’ve known for as long as we can remember, what it meant for him to be the heir and me the closest female blood relative. It hung like a dark cloud over all our interactions.

But here, as we pace around each other, prowling the edges of the courtyard like predators, weapons in hand, it’s the closest I have ever felt to him.

I can see it now, how much of him is truly a dragon. It’s there in his sable brow, his sharp eyes, the way his lips twitch before he strikes at me. And every time he subdues me. Our spars ending with me on the ground, and him standing over.

It is there I can see it, what my classmates swooned over.

 _"_ _You’re so lucky, Sakura-chan~”_ Our classmates would sing to me, all knowing that his heart was taken.

By me.

On the ground my nails dig into the dirt. My knee rises, hoping to brush his thigh, and heat grows in my bosom. For the first time since I’ve ever known him, _I want him._

But he turns away.

“You hesitated.” He told me sternly, placing his naginata along the wall with the others. I push myself up from the ground; my arms and legs hurt from where he has hit me with the cloth-wrapped blade. Each bruise a reminder of where I would’ve been injured or killed had it been a real fight. I don’t remember the last time I experienced such pain, a sensation I avoided at incredible costs.

Yet _this_ pain I want to relish in.

“You must learn to be more aggressive.” He unraveled the bandages wrapped around his hands, “It is good to be defensive, but you must take the opportunity to strike when it presents itself.” Then he turns on me, his eyes catching the lantern overhead and flashing, “Do you understand?” His tone is commanding, and I want to obey.

“Yes.” I whispered back, lowering my gaze.

He frowned, “Do not bow your head. And speak _louder_.”

“Yes.” I say, uncomfortably pushing voice into my throat. Oba-sensei’s angry chides drilling into the back of my mind, _“Women should be seen and not heard.”_

He is not pleased. He takes a step toward me, “Louder.” He demands.

“Yes.” I try my voice again, but it’s sheepish and weak.

“Sakura.” He growls, “How can you expect to fight me if you cannot even _speak_ to me?”

I open my mouth, desperately trying to find my voice, but I choke – like a dream where you want to scream but no matter how hard you force your throat muscles, nothing comes out, “Yes.” I squeaked.

He is clearly disappointed. And the shame, it is immense, because above all is Oba-sensei’s most important lesson: _“Do not ever disappoint your husband.”_

 

* * *

 

Sojiro-sama dropped his sleeves, exposing his chest and arms. The man is over sixty, but one wouldn’t guess by the fitness of his figure. He is large, even for a Shimada, but not so bulky as to temper his agility and grace. Even as an old man, Sojiro is the world’s preeminent assassin – after all, it is his personal philosophy as _oyabun_ that he can outfight _any_ of his subordinates.

I am sure that there is little sign of age in his skin, but it is impossible to tell as both of his arms are painted with two vibrant swirling dragons that stretch onto most of his chest. Shimada-gumi men are known for this particular style, but his is by far the finest of any Shimada work. The artist sits before him, his masterpiece reflecting in his round glasses.

A scrawny nothing of a man with teeth jutting out of a giddy smile; like a lollygagging dog. Were it not for his special secret technique of body enhancement through tattoo art, he would never have the merit to sit so close to someone as powerful as Sojiro.

And Hanzo sits next to the artist, like a solid rock next to a flimsy bamboo stalk, the two look incongruous next to one another. The artist’s strange tools surround my fiancé, tools which look less like they are fit for a tattoo-artist and more for a mad scientist. Ink gurgles over a gas burner, a flickering blue, tubes connecting it to other odd devices; what he called ‘a leyden jar’ and ‘tesla coils’. Kitsune (not his given name) playfully spins his needle around his fingers, bug eyes darting between Hanzo and his father.

“You are sure this technique will work?” Sojiro asks him again.

“No.” Kitsune giggles.

Hanzo shows no sign of concern, despite the peril of his situation.

His father stands and approaches his son, perhaps the only man in the world more intimidating than Hanzo. Next to me Genji swallows hard, and I wonder if he is as afraid of his own father as I am. We are watching from the sidelines with our other closest family members, for you see, today is Hanzo’s coming of age day. The day he truly becomes a man. And this event will be solidified with his first official Shimada tattoo.

Sojiro harshly tugs down the top of Hanzo’s yukata, exposing his young unblemished skin. For just a second I see Hanzo falter – he _is_ afraid. His exposure is made especially worse by the crude way Kitsune’s eyes crawl over Hanzo’s skin, “Ohhh…” He coos, rubbing a grubby hand across Hanzo’s chest, “I _love_ a clean canvas…”

Hanzo strikes out at him with his teeth, causing the little man to jump back. Sojiro laughs, “You think you’re fierce now?” He reminds his son, “Just wait until he’s through with you.” Nodding to Kitsune.

I realize I’m trembling, wondering if I’m about to witness a murder. A slow, long, painful murder.

Sojiro pulls a dagger from his waistband and holds his arm over the bubbling vat of ink before slicing open; thick drops of dark red blood saturating the concoction.

I can smell it from here; metal mixed with rot, odious and suffocating. And, soon, it will be pumped into Hanzo’s skin. I cannot help but cough, causing those around to look over at me. I blush, embarrassed, but Genji is there to comfort me, “Here.” He says, handing me a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Thank you.” I barely manage before covering my mouth and noise.

He’s scared too. He clutches my hand as Kitsune approaches Hanzo.

Many years ago and with many failed attempts on sorry victims, Kitsune perfected a unique style of tattoo art, one which combined his skills as a geneticist and physicist. His art could alter your very fabric, giving you the ability to control the elements around you; a biotic weapon. He reserved his most powerful technique to Sojiro and Sojiro alone, combining the special ink with Sojiro’s _very own blood_ to ensure that _no other_ could ever obtain this special biotic weapon. Kitsune claimed that any other flesh he tattooed with this special ink would reject it. Sojiro, however, is never a man to take chances, and so he had Kitsune demonstrate on an unwilling victim.

I did not see the result, but I have heard, the demonstration was truly horrific. Horrific enough for Sojiro to be satisfied. And thus, it was confirmed that this special ink would be exclusive to Shimadas.

This is only an assumption, though, that the ink will take. Sojiro was the first to obtain this kind of tattoo. Hanzo would be the second. We had no way of actually knowing if it would work. And even if it did, the process was painful. Not even Sojiro could withhold his agonizing cries, and then he was bedridden for the entire following week as his body _changed_ … and the dragon was born.

With a click, Kitsune’s needle begins to whirr, the tubes filling with the vile liquid

 

* * *

 

I stand in front of Hanzo’s door, carrying a tray of dinner. It was three days since we all watched the awful ordeal, but I haven’t seen him since. His unconscious body was taken to his chambers, and he had been unseen by any but his closest servants.

So wretched his condition, they have told me, servants have returned from his room, frightened to tears. _He’s become a monster!_ A younger girl, who used to fawn over him, whimpered to me. She told me he became upset because of something wrong with his food, and threw it against the wall, breaking every dish.

He hasn’t physically hurt anyone though – not like Sojiro did during his recovery. Many poor servants had returned from his room bruised and scratched – one poor man was nearly strangled to death. This was not the case with Hanzo, who seemed to take out all of his rage on furniture or flatware.

I open the door, _“Shitsureishimasu._ ”

He his sitting up in his bed, still weak from his condition but alive and wired, fidgeting and clutching the bedsheets. His wild eyes fall onto me and he snarls. His eyes flicker blue, as does the new tattoo, electrified. I can hear pops and snaps of static as he is still becoming familiar with his new ability to manipulate the magnetic field around him.

The room is a disaster, furniture toppled, clothes ripped, scratches on the walls and floors. I can see why they are all afraid. But I am not afraid of him. I have long learned that despite being so intimidating he is not at all like the other Shimada men. Aside from the bruises left from our spars, I know that, even now, he would _never_ hurt me.

What does hurt me, though, is seeing him in such discomfort. Hanzo never likes to reveal his hand, and even now he is struggling to hide his affliction as the ink sears deep into his flesh.

I want to be strong for him.

I smile warmly, “It has been too long.” I walk toward his bed.

He recoils, “Do _not_ come closer!”

But I ignore him, “I heard you have not eaten in three days.” I gently place the tray on the bedside cabinet, “They hope that maybe I can get you to-“

He grabs the tea cup and throws it past my head against the wall. The tea splatters against the painted wood and the ceramic shattered with a loud crash.

I turn and frown at him, “Now look at what you’ve done!”

He looks a little surprised.

“Sit back!” I command him.

Another surprise, he obeys, leaning back against his pillows. His eyes light up a bright blue, like a firefly’s glow. An odd side effect of the transformation.

I lift the lid of the _tonjiru_ and take a deep breath, smelling of spices and meats. Of all the silly feminine arts I have learned, cooking is truly the only one I have thoroughly appreciated.

Hanzo is leaning forward, sniffing the air. His pupils dilate and his stomach growls. His hand lunges for the bowl but I slap him away, “ _Dame!_ ” He gives me an angry look.

“Remember your manners.” I hand him his chopsticks.

Bitterly, he takes the chopsticks and shakily lifts the bowl, trying to restrain his animal instinct to devour. I keep a close eye on him, reminding him to maintain self control in polite company.

And he does. He gently takes the bowl and starts to eat. The static in the air begins to relax.

“See. You were just hungry.”

After a couple of bites he takes a deep breath, his face looks as if the very act of eating is breaking his heart, “I was.” He spoke softly, then he lurched, gagging a little, before forcing it down, “It is… difficult to eat.” He explained with a flinch.

I put a gentle hand on his thigh, “Then take it slow.”

He looks down at my hand and I can feel the tension in his muscles release and his expression softens, “Thank you…” he told me with a loving smile.

My cheeks burn. Somehow I feel it is the kindest thing he’s ever said to me.

 

* * *

 

I leave the room with an empty tray and a smile on my face. I am not _trying_ to smile, it’s just kind of happening, all on it’s own.

I don’t mind it being there.

In the darkness, at the end of the hall, I see the silhouette of a scrawny man; Kitsune. His teeth are so big, they shine like headlights in the night. I cannot help but feel my insides churn every time I see him.

I feel especially distasteful toward him now, after seeing what he did to Hanzo. Hanzo tried his best not to scream while that monster drilled his needles into him. But he did cry out and that sadistic creep seemed to get some kind of high off of torturing my beloved.

But still. He has a unique gift, and he has offered it to us. He could have gone to any criminal organization, but he has been loyal to the Shimada-gumi. And so I have maintained my courtesy around him.

I walk down the hall and bow my head as I pass him, “ _Konbanwa._ ”

He clears his throat as I walk past, “How is he doing?”

I stop, giving him my attention, “Better now that he has eaten.””

Kitsune chuckles nervously, “Good because they can be _so difficult_ after the procedure! Right?” He smiles awkwardly, revealing his disjointed teeth.

I withhold my disgust, “I suppose.” I said simply, before turning away to-

“Say, have you two… y’know… consummated your marriage yet?”

I turn back to him and frown, “Excuse me?”

“Y’know, have you-“ He gestures something vulgar with his fingers.

My heart rate spikes. I clutch the tray close to my chest and avert my gaze to the floor, “We..." My mind searches for something to say, "We aren’t even married yet.”

I take a step backward. But he steps forward, “Is that so? So… That means your still single.”

“We are engaged.” But I have no ring to prove it.

He ignores this fact, “Can I see your skin?”

“I- uh…” I look down the hall, “I have to be somewhere-“

He grabs my yukata as I turn away, pulling back the sleeve, exposing my shoulder, my arm.

“Wow.” He murmurs, those giant eyes soaking in my skin, “Your skin is so pale – like snow! Even more beautiful than his…” His breath hangs off of his teeth.

“Stop. Please.” I stammer, weakly trying to brush his hand away.

“Shimada men become marked and scarred, but Shimada women.” He licks his teeth, “Your skin stays so pure. A blank… untouchable canvas.”

Untouchable, and yet, his fingers are reaching toward it. I try to move away but my back presses against a wall I didn’t know was there, “Kitsune-san…” I try.

 _“Speak louder!”_ Hanzo scolds from my memory.

My flesh crawls, and I try to pull up the yukata but he’s still tugging it downward, “Please.” I try again.

_“How can you expect to fight me if you can’t even speak to me?”_

I open my mouth, but my voice has gone. His teeth are coming toward my neck and he presses his lips against me.

_“You must be more aggressive!”_

But all of my strength is disappearing. I try fighting back. I know I can. I know this isn’t right. I know I should say no. But fear buckles my knees and ankles. It steals my voice from my throat.

And he has his way with me, right there down the hall, only fifty feet from my lover’s door.

 

* * *

 

We have both changed. If anyone can notice it, however, they do not say anything. Except Genji. Genji is the only one with worry all over his face.

“Sakura-chan.” He asks me, “Did… something happen?”

“No.” I grunt through gritted teeth as I size up a hay dummy and strike with one forceful jab right in the middle of its gut, “Why do you ask?”

He sits there watching me disembowel the dummy, mouth agape, “You… uh… You are acting differently.”

Swiftly, I turn to the dummy behind me. With a shout I swing _ryuugakoroshi_ and slice it in two. The dummy rips apart in a satisfying burst of straw and dust, one which makes me grin. Hanzo enters from the other end of the courtyard. I spin my _naginata_ and hold it next to me like a spear as he approaches.

His katana is at his hilt, as it always is now. He stops less than a foot from me and we stare each other down like two warriors on opposing sides. He notices the dummies I’ve destroyed, “I see you are still practicing.”

“Yes.”

“Have you had a partner to practice with?”

“I asked Genji but he said no.”

Hanzo’s imperious gaze wanders to his brother. Genji cowered some. Hanzo somehow became even more menacing after emerging from his bed chambers, so much so that now even Genji seemed nervous around him.

“Genji wouldn’t be a good partner anyway.” Hanzo says.

Genji looks hurt – they were always opposites, but they had an intimate bond despite their differences. Now that wasn’t the case anymore. I would probably have felt more sympathy, if I too hadn’t become so apathetic.

“And it is no use practicing on _dummies_.” Hanzo’s tone nothing short of disgust, “You need to practice with a real partner.”

I tilt my head, feeling flirty, “Perhaps you are free some time?”

He looks me in the eye, and I match his fierceness. We shared one intimate moment together in his room during his recovery, but any sensitive feelings, faked or not, were completely gone now. Replaced by something more carnal.

“Perhaps.” He repeats, a flicker of blue in his eye. I cannot help but smile; knowing exactly what that meant.

“I’ll… uh…” Genji rose to his feet, “I’ll just… go into town or something.” He put his hands in his pockets and wandered away.

 

* * *

 

Sojiro is sick. But we must go through with the ceremony anyway. Genji is much more visibly nervous than his brother was on his coming of age day. He desperately looks around for someone to share his fear with, or maybe, like before, just for a hand to hold.

But none of us are offering.

Hanzo has replaced his Sojiro at the dais, glaring down at his brother with as much ferocity as their father. The weasel Kitsune approaches Genji in delighted fervor, “I’ve _perfected_ it some.” He says, eyes darting to Hanzo before whispering something none of us can hear to Genji.

Genji’s fear escalates; he fights against the men holding his arms, “I don’t want this!” He shouts, “Please!” He begs his brother.

But Hanzo is firm in his conviction, and simply watches as the needle draws near.

“No!” Genji cries, “Don’t!” But there is nothing he can do.

He screams louder than either Shimada before him, every cry like someone reaching into my chest and squeezing my heart. And that vile creature, Kitsune, relishes in ever pitiful sound. When it is over, Genji is taken to his chambers. The days pass, and his reaction is very… different from his brother and father. He does not lash out, he does not throw things, he simply lies there in bed, tears on his cheeks. He doesn’t speak, hardly moves, he doesn’t eat. Not even I can rouse him too. When he finally does emerge from his slumber, he is half of the man he was.

Quietly he joins us for dinner and devours the food before him like a hungry dog. But he says nothing.

 

* * *

 

Sojiro is dead. Only a few days after the funeral, we are sitting at an expensive bar regularly visited by yakuza types. Hanzo has his own private space on a balcony overlooking the main dining area. It _was_ Sojiro’s space. Not anymore.

I sit across from my husband, wearing the very same purple and red yukata he had given me years before. He sips carefully on some sake as a partner of the Shimada-gumi tells us about Overwatch, Blackwatch, and a particularly annoying agent by the name of Gerard LaCroix.

I am listening very carefully to what he is telling us, assessing the threat to us, considering what we can do. In fact, I have been following this situation closely and I have _many_ thoughts regarding how to handle the so-called _do-gooders._ The man in his clean suit looks at me, as if he can see that I am plotting, but he turns to my husband.

“How do you suggest we handle the situation?”

Hanzo’s gaze jumps back to him. He was not paying any attention. A hiss of hot air escapes my lips as I struggle to withhold my frustration. To me the answer is clear, but he was _distracted_.

However, Hanzo is excellent at maintaining his aloof position, “That is _not_ a question you should be asking me. I _expect you_ to take care of it.”

The other man looks visibly shaken, but I am rolling my eyes. Hanzo is only saving face, and to me it is pathetic.

Genji suddenly barges into the space, a giggling woman hanging from his arm. He makes such a loud noise as he nearly knocks over the table between us, unable to control himself. The drunk.

The woman looks at me and gasps, “Oops!” Still sober enough to recognize my disgust.

“It’s okay.” Genji slurs, “I’m an _oyabun_ , they can’t touch us…”

Hanzo addresses the other man, “You are dismissed.” He says curtly.

The man nods, takes his briefcase and quickly leaves before Hanzo can be embarrassed further. Then the older turns his gaze against younger, “Must you be so difficult?” He snarls.

Genji sways an arm at Hanzo, as if to brush him aside, “Must _you_ be such a stick in the mud? Even dad had his fun~.” He nuzzles his lips against the equally intoxicated woman’s neck, who squeaks delightfully.

I avert my gaze and touch my neck. It’s an area that still makes me uncomfortable…

“Our father has not been gone for a week and _this_ is how you respect him?”

Even as glassy eyed and consumed as he is, Genji can tell that this is about to escalate. He gives a gentle goodbye to his latest arm candy, who pouts in protest but eventually leaves. Genji can barely make his way to the seat across from his, falling into it and sinking down into it.

“The way you carry on. It is shameful.” Hanzo scolds.

I whip open my hand fan to cover my pursed lips, “You always smell of liquor and sex.” I fan my noise to emphasize, “Our servants scrub the walls day and night to rid them of your stench~”

He looks insulted, and it pleases me. But like the guest before, he turns to Hanzo instead, “This is wrong. This is wrong and you know it is.” He says rather boldly.

Hanzo doesn’t respond, waiting for the drunk to ramble on.

“You and I don’t want this. We never have.” He waves his hands around, “All of this! An _empire_ of lies of dirty money.”

I cannot hide my shock; he is speaking blasphemy. I look to my husband, expecting him to react strongly and swiftly. But he does not. The drunkard rambles on, “We have the power, the skill, the money, _everything_ to do _better!”_

“That is not the _way,_ Genji-san.”

“Oh! Fuck the way!”

Hanzo flinches.

“Look at what _the way_ has done to you,” He points an angry finger at his brother, “To me.” Back at himself, “To us!” He gestures at all three of us.

Hanzo closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, “Be careful what you say. You are bordering dissidence-“

“Dissidence to who? _You?”_ Genji sneers, “Father made it clear that after his death we are _both_ in charge.”

“And you have taken no responsibility! The clan is counting on you and you spend your time in bars and brothels, wasting away! The elders are talking. They do not _respect_ your authority, and this is reflecting on me as well! You _cannot_ be a leader if you _cannot lead!_ ”

Genji stands up and snatches our remaining sake from the table. He drinks it and slams the _tokkuri_ back down before leaving. Hanzo is seething and he looks to me. The _oyabun_ looks to _no one_ for guidance – another of Sojiro’s staunch beliefs – but as time has gone on Hanzo looks to me more and more.

“What can I do?”

I shrug, feigning ignorance, “I don’t know, my love. What do we Shimada’s do to insubordinates?” My tone is playful, bordering lustful. He swallows hard.

There is a sudden cheer from down below. We look over the balcony railing to see a… _cowboy?_ He is laughing loudly and teaching a drunken group of patrons how to line dance.

Bizarre.

 

* * *

 

Genji has become a _little_ less unruly. Now, instead of sleeping around with he seems to have become particularly interested in only _one_ woman. She’s pretty, a blonde from Switzerland. Unusually prudent for someone as floozy as Genji, and her presence seems to have cleaned him up a little. But I have never met her; I have only heard the gossip and I can only see what affect she is having on him. He is doing his best to keep their relationship _secret_ for one reason or another.

Part of me, disappointingly, wonders if the secrecy is because he doesn’t want to hurt his reputation as a playboy. Not at all caring for his reputation as a fearsome dragon lord.

But whatever. It is an improvement.

More importantly, it reflects kindly on my husband too. I assume he spoke with Genji to encourage him to stay in line. And about time too, it was truly beginning to look bad for the both of them.

I go to him while he’s alone doing target practice with his bow. Playfully, I sneak up behind him, throwing my arms around his shoulders. He doesn’t fight back as I am sure he heard me coming.

“You did a good job, _niisan_.” I whisper into his ear.

He glances back at me, “I am unsure what you are speaking of.”

Despite me hanging off of him, he readies his bow, “Genji?” I ask, still hot from the day dreams I’ve indulged in – wondering what _kind_ of punishment Hanzo gave to the younger. A whip? A beating with a bamboo stick? I wonder if maybe he can show me later…

“What about Genji?” He asks, firing the bow. The arrow misses the target.

“He’s becoming much more well-behaved.” I am sliding my leg in between his, “I assume that _you_ had something to do with it.”

He pulls the bow taut, then holds it there for a moment before saying, “No.”

I freeze, “No?”

“No. I haven’t spoken to him.”

He fires the bow. Miss.

I let go of him, taking a step back, “You _didn’t_ speak with him?”

He pulls another arrow from his quiver, nocked it, pulled back, “No.” He says simply.

Fire. Miss.

I inflate with rage. I reach out and grab his wrist before he can take another arrow. I know he can fight back, but he doesn’t.

“Hanzo- _sama_.” I mockingly say his title, feeling it is ill-suited, “ _You_ have allowed him to get away with this insubordinate behavior for so long. And you did _nothing_ to change it?”

He frowns at me, but lets me continue, “Sojiro would _never_ allow such behavior, not even from his own sons! You cannot show weakness, not even to your brother.”

He wrenches his hand from me, “I am not my father.” He returned to his bow.

In all my years with him, lover and cousin, I have _never_ been so disappointed in him. I withhold my anger. I straighten my yukata and say simply, “You are right. You are _not_ him.”

I take my leave.

 

* * *

 

It becomes more clear with each passing day that _neither_ boy is fit to lead the Shimada-gumi. Genji is better behaved but shows no interest in family business. And Hanzo? He would be perfect were it not for his distracted attitude.

The elders have noticed it. As have I. I listen in on every meeting and every consultation. I understand the interworkings of our organization backwards and forwards, I know all of the details of every business dealing, every partner in crime, and every threat to our family.

The Overwatch threat, especially, seems to be escalating. We have a rat. A smelly pestilent rat who is leaking information to them, somehow. Their agents infiltrate our dealings, interrupting robberies, weapon transports, capturing our best men.

And Hanzo is doing nothing to stop it.

My fury is increasing. I know he knows what he must do, but he does _not pay attention!_ All the while, I can only do what I as a woman am expected to do.

Sit.

And listen.

I am now standing in a musty tattoo parlor. You would think that an artist and scientist of such prominence would keep his space better kept… But I am not surprised as the clutter and filth very much match the despicable man.

Kitsune enters from a back room, takes one look at me, and melts into adoration, “The beautiful Sakura flower.” He giggles, twiddling his fingers excitedly, “What brings someone as important as you to my humble establishment?”

I hate him.

I hate him more than Oba-sensei.

I hate him more than a woman can bear to hate.

But he is invaluable. He has the key to Shimada power. And though I am a woman…

I am still a Shimada.

I walk up to him, maintaining an air of business and ignore his twitters of delight, “I have come with a request. One that _cannot_ under _any_ circumstance leave this room.”

He reacts as I expected, licking his teeth hungry and expectant, “Oh Sakura-san…I never expected you to be so-“

I interrupt him by dropping a book of artwork onto his work table with a loud SLAP! It is opened to the page with dragon tattoos – not just any, though. Sojiro’s, Hanzo’s, and Genji’s. I press my finger into the image of Sojiro’s, the larger and greater of the three, “You will paint this on my back.” I demand.

He looks between me and the book, his smile fading. A moment of silence passes between us. I can see he wants to protest but is struggling to find the right words.

“Is there a problem, Kitsune-san?” My eyes narrow.

“Destroy that _perfect_ skin?” He gripes.

My fingers and lips curl as I withhold the urge to strangle him.

“My skin is _mine_.” My voice strong my throat, “And I will do with it as my please. So if you will.” I reach for the buttons of my shirt. But he stays my hand.

Funny, thought he would be eager to witness me again.

“You _know_ this technique is reserved to Shimadas _only_.” He reminds me.

“Am I not a Shimada?”

He looks surprised. Of course. By “Shimadas only”, he really means “Shimada _men_ only”. I am here to prove him, to prove them _all_ wrong.

But he shakes his head, “Sorry, sweetie.” He waggles his finger at me with a stupid smile, “I know the old man is dead but I swore to him to keep this particular ink exclusive to his sons.” He reaches for the book, but I grab his hands, digging my nails into his wrists.

For the first time in my presence, he looks… concerned _._

“Kitsune-san…” My voice is sweet as honey, “We can do this simply or I can _force_ you.” My nails dig in, causing him to whimper. The noise thrills me.

But then he smiles nervously, “Sakura-san.” He almost chuckles, “You don’t want to kill me. I’m the only one who knows this technique after all! Heh- right?” he raises his eyebrows, not so sure if I respect that.

But I do respect it. I loosen my grip, “Yes. It is true. I cannot bring any harm upon you.”

He begins to get a little more comfortable again, licking his teeth and lips all excitedly.

“But-“

His face drops.

“There are others I can.” I pull a photo from my yukata and flick it onto the table, “Did Sojiro know that the _kitsune_ has a litter?”

It’s a picture of a stout little wife and three darling kids. All with the same horrible buck teeth, but on a child it almost looks endearing.

He frantically grabs the photo, looking between it and I as if trying to catch my bluff, “You wouldn’t-“

“Do you wish to test me?”

“Please, Sakura-san-“ Now he is the one who begs, “Someday you will be a mother. Surely you can understand how painful it could be to lose a child?” He is trying to pluck at my heart strings. The fool. It was he, after all, who took my heart and crushed it.

Gently, I take the photo back from him and lay it on the table. He trembles like a reed as I gently place my finger on what looks to be the oldest, “Three.” I say simply, counting each head with my finger, “You have three chances to deny my request.”

He is still trying to find my bluff, but I am _not_ bluffing. The world could do with fewer disgusting little pests, anyway.

He swallows hard, “The experience, it’s painful-“

“I understand.”

“And you will need time to recover.”

“I have arranged my closest servants to care for me.”

“How could you possibly hide that?”

I nearly smirk, “I am a woman.” I remind him, “We are masters at appearances.”

 

* * *

 

 

Of course it hurt. I always thought child birth would be the most painful experience of my life, but this could possibly be worse than that. But when it is through, I am still awake. I have to walk home, after all, no servants to carry me to my chambers.

I comb out my hair, wipe the tears from my eyes, fix my make up, wrap the yukata around me, trying not to cringe as it brushes against my fresh wound.

Kitsune looks concerned for my well-being but I will _not_ allow him to touch me more than he has to.

“Thank you. You will be rewarded kindly.” I tell him before I leave. His tattoo parlor is just outside our home, but it feels miles away. My feet are heavy and dragging. I can feel myself.. changing…

The tattoo is burning into me, feeding me new unspoken power. The air around me has become electrified, my vision nearly burns red as I can _see_ the outlines of static around everything around me. Machines whir and buzz, even people flicker with hissing pops and sparks.

Even worse than that, however, is the hunger. My mouth is disobeying me, saliva daring to drip from my teeth as my tongue dances to suck it back in. My throat is on fire, growls rumble in my bosom, My voice is growing strong and more powerful – I can hardly control myself from grunting and snarling, like some kind of beast.

But most of all, I cannot understand why the boys reacted so negatively. The pain is intense, the lack of control is startling, but at the same time it is the _best_ I have ever felt. I am insatiable, I am powerful.

I feel unstoppable.

I cannot help smiling as I return to my home. I see _R_ _yuugakoroshi_ sitting propped against the courtyard wall and resist the urge to take it and slaughter every sniveling servant, every strict teacher, all the snide elders with their stupid rules and sayings. Every stupid little girl and boy in this stupid household.

Genji is lounging in his usual spot, consumed in his phone – presumably flirting with the Swiss girl. He stops when he notices me, and sits up, looking concerned, “Sakura-chan?”

“Hm?” I turn to him, my eyes ablaze and my lips stretched across my cheeks.

He is taken aback, “Are you… okay?”

“Why?” I ask, still grinning as I walk toward him, holding myself higher and prouder than I ever have.

“You look… different.”

I sit down next to him, where I notice he has been served cakes and tea. I am pleased to see that I am still somewhat in control, as I delicately pour myself a cup and bring the steaming drink to my lips, “Strange.” I say, “I couldn’t guess why.”


End file.
